


Nostalgia

by ladymacbeth99



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, You've been warned, this is pretty sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5372285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacbeth99/pseuds/ladymacbeth99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not wanting to intrude on other families, Steve finds himself spending Christmas alone. Until he realizes that Thor doesn't have a family to go home to, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend Blitzywing, who asked for a Steve and Thor friendship fic. 
> 
> This is my first time really writing Steve, let alone from his perspective, so please be gentle with me. ;)

**Christmas Eve, 2015**

Christmas in the modern era was always strange for Steve.

He was disconcerted the first time he heard familiar voices coming from his car radio--Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole, whose records he used to save up for. He hadn’t been listening to an oldies station, either. Even most of the modern Christmas music consisted of covers of songs he already knew.

The decorations hadn’t changed much, either. “Vintage” style was popular, with the big multicolored bulbs on the trees. The one exception seemed to be tinsel--nobody seemed into that anymore.

It was like he had stepped into a time loop.

People in the twenty-first century seemed to equate the thirties and forties with innocence and nostalgia, a time of simplicity, which Steve supposed was the reason they attempted to resurrect it this time every year.

The commercialism around the holidays was nothing new to him, however. He remembered crowding around department store windows to goggle at the model train sets, the wind-up biplanes, the toy tanks, the baby dolls with painted faces, the shiny new bikes. Because he was so small and could never run there after school as fast as the other kids, Bucky would lift him up so he could see over the crowd. He always felt guilty about looking, though. He knew his ma could never afford any new toys like these, so he stole glances in secret, knowing he would never ask for anything.

Somehow, though, his stocking always had something in it from Santa Claus that he really wanted. The new set of water colors one year, a pair of ice skates the next.

It wasn’t until he grew older that he understood how the Barnes family, who was relatively well-off by comparison, looked out for the Rogers when they had trouble making ends meet.

That was the other reason Steve felt awkward now at Christmas time: it was a holiday spent with one’s family. But he had no one.

Well. That wasn’t quite true. He had friends here, but most of them had families of their own, and spending time with them felt like an intrusion.

Steve had visited the nursing home earlier that day to brighten up Peggy’s room with poinsettias. It  was one of the rare good days--she was sitting upright in bed, lucid, and did not seem surprised to see him.  She was thrilled by the bottle of brandy he’d brought for her. They had cheerfully reminisced together for a while, her bony, withered hand clasping his with surprising strength.

But the spell was broken by the arrival of Peggy’s grandchildren--though she insisted he didn’t have to leave, Steve felt horribly awkward and stood up.

“Will you come for New Years?” she called after him.

He grinned. “Who else is going to kiss me at midnight?”

She chortled with him, but then reached for his hand again, pressing into it a small wrapped box with a red bow. “No peeking until Christmas morning, do you hear?” she warned him, raising her eyebrows sternly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He kissed her forehead and fled, dodging glances from the curious grandchildren.

* * *

It was a lonely walk home. His hands shoved deep into his coat pockets because he’d given his mittens to a homeless man huddled in an alley, he could see his breath rising in front of him in little puffs. He tried to focus on the light dusting of snow on the ground instead of the illuminated apartment windows that he passed, where he could see families hugging and greeting each other.

He couldn’t even be a Scrooge and swear off Christmas in general. He had too many happy memories--but they brought a lump to his throat, because every single one of them involved Bucky, and he couldn’t help worrying about his lost friend. Where was he now? Was he somewhere warm? Did he have enough food? Was anyone taking care of him?

Bucky had disappeared without a trace after the fall of SHIELD, so despite his mental instability, he was clearly capable of keeping himself out of harm’s way. Wasn’t he?

_Is he thinking of me now? Does he remember any of those Christmases I spent at his house because our landlord turned our heat off? Does he remember...?_

Deep breaths. He couldn’t get consumed with this today. He would find Bucky when Bucky was ready to be found.

Now Steve sat on his living room sofa with Peggy’s present balanced on his palm. It was just a little bigger than a ring box, and he could hear something rattling around inside when he shook it.

Before he could guess at its contents, he was jerked from his thoughts by his phone buzzing.

Natasha had sent him a photo of a snowman she’d built with the Barton kids. They had stood up a red circular sled in front of it like a shield, and put a blue ski cap on its head.

_Pretty good likeness, huh? ;)_

With a snort, he texted back. _Uncanny. U r such an artist._

_Still not too late to join us._

Steve sighed. She had been wheedling him for weeks about spending Christmas at Clint’s farm. While he appreciated that his friends didn’t want him to mope alone, he felt that being surrounded by a happy white-picket-fence family that he wasn’t a part of was the last thing he needed.

 _Nah_ , he texted, _I’d feel weird. Thanks though._

Determined to keep himself too busy to feel sorry for himself, he turned on the TV and started searching for Christmas specials to watch while he folded the laundry that had been sitting in the clothes basket for a week now. He got sucked into a sappy Hallmark movie marathon, cleaning up his apartment as he watched.

Suddenly, there a knock at the door.

“Hey Thor, what’s up?” he said as he let his visitor in.

The Asgardian was striking even in normal contemporary clothing--jeans, a grey wool coat, and a crimson scarf--and even though it suited him, he didn’t seem to quite fit in with his surroundings, as if he were simply too big for the hallway.

“I have come to return these to you,” said Thor, holding up a stack of Ella Fitzgerald records Steve had loaned him. “You were most correct. Although iTunes is more convenient--”

“The sound quality just isn’t the same,” Steve finished, nodding. He paused. “You have time to stay for coffee, Thor?”

“Thank you, my friend. I have nowhere to be.”

Steve frowned as he scooped coffee grounds into his French press. “Aren’t you doing anything with Jane?”

“Well, no. Hanukkah was last week, and she has been celebrating with her mother’s family in Chicago.”

“And you...didn’t go with her?” Steve bit his lip. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“There is no need to apologize,” said Thor easily, but there was some discomfort underneath the breeziness of his tone. “Jane’s mother does not particularly approve of me.”

“Of you?” Steve repeated incredulously. He couldn’t really imagine what was objectionable about Thor--prince of Asgard, selfless hero, friendly, devoted, smarter than people gave him credit for.

“Yes,” Thor said with a wry smile. “I think she would prefer Jane to marry an intellectual more like herself.”

“Well, Jane’s an adult, she can pick whoever she wants.”

Thor took the steaming cup of black coffee from Steve and took a grateful sip. “Indeed. But I would rather not be the cause of unnecessary strife in her family, so I remained behind.”

Steve watched Thor thoughtfully as they sipped in silence for a moment. He hadn’t really thought of Thor as a close friend or anything, but he felt an affinity for his companion and fellow Avenger.

And now it seemed he was as alone as Steve.

“Do you wanna--that is, if you’re not busy--well of course you have things to do, I just thought I’d ask--”

“I would be delighted to spend Christmas with you,” Thor finished for him, beaming.

* * *

Thor returned to Steve’s apartment with a toothbrush and a change of clothes. He was eager, he said, to experience a traditional Midgardian Christmas.

“Do you guys have a holiday around this time in Asgard?” Steve asked as he hung up Thor’s coat. Now he realized that Thor was wearing a ridiculous Rudolph sweater with his otherwise fashionable attire.

“We call it Yule. It marks the Winter Solstice. Many of your customs have been adapted from our Yuletide celebration. Hanging up greenery, for example.” He gestured to the wreath on Steve’s door and the artificial tree next to the television. “So this is all somewhat familiar to me. But how shall we spend it?”

“Well...you know what I could go for right now? Christmas cookies.”

“Excellent! Show me how I may be of use.”

Soon, Steve’s gloomy kitchen was alive with activity. Thor beat eggs while Steve scanned through his pantry cupboard for frosting and sprinkles, Sinatra crooning from the radio on the counter.

As he measured out the sugar, Steve explained, “This was my ma’s recipe. Even when money was tight, she always made cookies for all our neighbors.”

Just the smell of the vanilla was bringing back memories--of his mother wrapping him in so many scarves that he could hardly see, and then sending him out in the blizzard to deliver plates of cookies. His shabby boots were soaked through by the time he made it to the Barnes’ house, but Mrs. Barnes always sat him by the fire with a cup of cocoa before letting him brave his way home.

 _How many times do I have to tell Mrs. Rogers that she doesn’t have to send cookies every year?_ Mrs. Barnes would mutter under her breath. _That woman needs to take a break once in a while._

At that age, young Steve had found it difficult to explain his mother’s pride. But as he grew older, he understood her more and more.

“We had pastries not unlike this when I was a child,” Thor said after tasting the batter.

“Don’t eat that, it has raw eggs,” Steve said automatically, then flushed when he realized how much he sounded like his mother.

Thor ignored him, evidently not afraid of any Midgardian food borne illnesses. He and Steve rolled the dough into balls, arranged them on a cookie sheet, and slid them into the oven.

“You know, I didn’t think you would be good at this,” Steve admitted. “I mean, what with being a prince and all. You probably didn’t do stuff like this growing up.”

Thor grinned and brushed some flour off of Steve’s forehead. “I learn quickly.”

* * *

When the cookies were done and he left them to cool on the kitchen counter, Steve found himself think about what a sweet tooth Sam had--Sam was in New Jersey visiting his grandmother at the moment, though like Natasha, he had pressed Steve to come with him. He snapped a picture of the still-warm cookies and sent it to his friend with the caption, Be very jealous.

A few minutes later, Sam texted back. _Dude, you better save me some._

_Can’t make any promises. Thor’s got a hell of an appetite._

_Please. I love Nanna but her fruitcake is awful. I mean, just the worst._

The next picture Steve sent him was of an empty plate. _Oops! Sorry Sam._

_Jerk._

Smirking, he pulled out a knife to spread the frosting, but he set aside a handful  of cookies to hide in the cupboard for Sam.

Thor was more skilled at decorating cookies than Steve expected--though he ate as much frosting as he spread.

“So tell me, my friend,” Thor said as they washed their utensils in the sink. “Jane has already explained the Festival of Lights to me--a most miraculous tale--but I wish to understand the origins of your holiday as well.”

Feeling somewhat awkward explaining this to an alien, even if he wasn’t actually a god, Steve recounted the nativity story while drying their dishes, and Thor listened carefully, seeming fascinated. In turn, Thor told him of Yule in Asgard, how they celebrated the darkest day of the year with tales of death and rebirth to come: Ragnarok, which was to be the end and a new beginning.

“The adults would keep a vigil until dawn,” Thor said, a faraway look in his eyes as he recalled. “That was the only time of year my mother would allow us children to stay up as late as we wished--though I usually could not keep my eyes open long enough. I tended to fall asleep in her lap no matter how I tried to stay awake.”

Steve laughed along with him. It was so hard to picture this hulking man as a child small enough to fit on his mother’s lap--that must have been centuries before Steve was born.

“Greeting the dawn after the darkest day of the year is meant to remind us that, even in the bleakest moments, the light will always return. I rarely had the stamina to last until daybreak, but Lo--” Thor broke off before he could complete his thought. It occurred to Steve who the _we_ had been referring to, and why Thor cleared his throat uncomfortably, as if regretting bringing up the subject at all.

“If there’s anything you do at Yule that you want to do here, just let me know,” Steve said hastily.

“Hmm...” Thor scratched at his beard. “If you will excuse me, I must make a brief journey to your market.”

He was out the door before Steve could even ask why.

* * *

When Thor returned, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and there was melting snow on his shoulders and on the paper bag that he set on the counter.

“There were a few ingredients that I could not find in your market,” he explained, pulling spice jars out of the bag. “Perhaps they are not available on Midgard. But I found substitutes.” He held up a shiny yellow apple. “It will not be as sweet as one of Idunn’s, but it will suffice.”

“Need any help?” Steve offered.

Thor put him to work slicing apples while he ground some fresh nutmeg. As Thor stirred in a healthy splash of mead from a flask, Steve asked him, “Is that the same stuff you gave me at Tony’s party a while ago?”

“Nay, my friend, this is a special Yuletide brew--the finest, purest honey from mountain lilies in Alfheim, fermented and aged in the caverns of Nidavellir. I think you will find it quite warming.”

Before long, the apartment was filled with the warm aroma of cloves and allspice simmering on the stove. Thor continuously tasted it and added more of this or that, but would not let Steve sample it until he declared it perfect.

Finally, Thor poured out two large mugs of the steaming amber liquid.

“To good times, and good company,” he said, raising his glass.

Steve smiled and toasted him. The very first sip sent a warm, tingling feeling from his crown to his fingertips. “That’s...that’s powerful stuff,” he remarked. “But it’s really delicious. Thanks, Thor.”

Thor clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I am very glad to have someone to share it with.”

* * *

After four glasses of mulled mead, Steve was teaching Thor every carol he could think of, and Thor taught him verses of Asgardian ballads, since they usually took hours to perform in their entirety. Steve’s voice was warbly, but Thor’s was a strong baritone that seemed to make the whole apartment shake.

Steve was dimly surprised that none of his neighbors had knocked on his door to complain.

After six glasses, Thor and Steve were laughing at just about anything.

“I haven’t been this sauced since Bucky’s birthday in 1943,” said Steve, holding onto Thor’s shoulder to keep himself upright. “It didn’t take much then.”

“Are you alright, Steve?” Thor seemed intensely concerned, even though he swayed a little in his seat. “We must slow down. I know you are hardier than most, but you are still mortal and I must take care of my mortal friends...”

Steve leaned close and locked his companion in an earnest gaze. “That is so good of you. You are such a good friend, Thor. You take care of people. But I’m fine.”

In some sober corner of Steve’s brain, he knew he would be embarrassed in the morning--Bucky always laughed at what a sentimental drunk he was.

But Thor was shaking his head. “I try. Sometimes I fail.”

“Don’t...” Steve wanted to tell him not to blame himself, but even in his inebriated state, he knew how hypocritical that would be. “I know what that’s like,” he said finally.

“Yes, I know.”

* * *

As the night wore on, the effects of the mead started to wear off, and now they mostly felt sleepy. They ordered Chinese food and watched _It’s a Wonderful Life_.

Apparently, the film had come out just after the war ended, so there was something surprisingly familiar to Steve about everything from the cars to the clothes. He had to pause it at one point to explain to Thor what angels were, but after that, the Asgardian seemed just as engrossed by the story.

In some ways, to Steve, it hit too close to home. The main character was given a chance to see what the world would have been like if he had never existed. Steve himself had often wondered how different things might have been if not for a single choice--if he had not gone through with Project Rebirth, if he hadnot asked Bucky to come along with him, if he had just stretched out his hand a little faster...if Zola hadn’t found Bucky in time to make a weapon out of him...or even if Steve had died of pneumonia at age nine like he should have...

But there could be nothing accomplished by dwelling on what might have been.

Then Steve caught Thor drying his eyes. Maybe he was still a bit drunk.

“Forgive me, I...” Thor took a deep breath. “This man thinks his family is better off without him, simply because he cannot see how much he is loved.”

“Sorry I had to pick a movie that made us depressed,” said Steve sheepishly.

Thor smiled, though his eyes were sad. “No, it was a good tale. Perhaps a true one in some ways.”

They watched the lights twinkling on the tree in silence for a moment, listened to the rustle of the fireplace. Thor had been disappointed to learn that it was an electric fireplace and they couldn’t burn a Yule log in it.

“Say, Thor. Why don’t we try to stay up until dawn, like you did when you were a kid?”

“You truly wish to?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun.”

* * *

By three in the morning, they were so tired and comfortable by the fire that Steve feared he would nod off, but Thor kept him awake by asking questions.

“Your friend,” he said carefully, “the one that you search for. Did you pass Christmastide with him in this way, too?”

“Actually Bucky is--was--” Steve shook himself blearily. After getting used to speaking of Bucky in the past tense, he had to re-learn his tenses all over again. But then, Steve wasn’t sure he could say with confidence who and what Bucky was now. How much the same, how different.

“He’s half-Jewish,” Steve finished lamely, “so sometimes I went over to his family’s for the first night of Hanukkah.”

He could almost hear the voices of two kids shuffling their way to school through the snow, one scrawny and shabbily dressed, the other subtly scanning the street for bullies that might cross their path.

_You mean you get eight days of presents, Buck? You’re so lucky._

_Aw, it’s not that great. Mostly socks and boring stuff like that._

The faint memory now made Steve smile, and the remembering only hurt a little this time. It was a muted pain, surrounded with enough fondness to be worthwhile.

With very little prompting from Thor, Steve found himself spilling all kinds of memories.

Of saving up his milk money to buy his ma the hat she’d been admiring--of the way she’d cried and kissed him when she opened it.

Of laughing at Bucky, watching him embarrass himself at every Christmas party as he schemed to catch every girl, any girl, under the mistletoe.

Of ice skating in the park until dusk, of Bucky lapping him a dozen times on the frozen pond and yanking him up again every time he fell.

Of kneeling in a pew, the inside of the church warm and golden in the candlelight, purposely remaining silent so that he could hear his mother’s soft voice sing the carols.

Of returning to that same church, years later, to light a candle in her memory.

Thor listened patiently, nodding encouragement but not pressing him.

“I’m--I’m sorry I’m going on like this,” Steve stammered.

“My friend, I know what it is to long for the past. I know.”

Steve was so exhausted that he could barely lift his head from the back of the couch, but he murmured, “Would you tell me about it? About your childhood? About--your brother?”

A look of gratitude passed across Thor’s features. Steve understood. The other Avengers saw them both as stuck in the past, unable to accept the future--they couldn’t talk to the others about this. They didn’t want to hear it. They certainly didn’t want to hear Thor speak of his treacherous brother with affection, despite what their past together had been. But Steve was starting to commiserate.

So in his deep, lulling voice Thor began to tell him: sumptuous feasts in the Great Hall, blazing bonfires, singing ballads and listening to epic poetry. Playing hide-and-seek in the chaos of the preparation. Stealing plum puddings from the kitchens (the architect of the plan was the younger, mischievous prince, yet he mysteriously escaped punishment many a time). That disastrous feast when Thor’s pet goats escaped from their reigns and decided to join the festivities--and Thor was so overcome with laughter that he could barely move. Hunting stags and cave-trolls, returning victorious to bask in the toasts and accolades.

And always, the little shadow at his side.

The stories, and the comforting rumble of Thor’s voice, made Steve drift slowly into warm, peaceful dreams.

* * *

He jerked from his doze at the chiming of the mantle clock. Thor snored on the couch beside him, his face untroubled, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder. He had evidently thrown a quilt over the two of them before falling asleep.

Just like a couple of kids at a slumber party, Steve mused.

Through the curtains, he could see the weak grey light rising above the skyline. Spying Peggy’s gift on the coffee table, Steve reached for it, careful not to disturb his sleeping friend. It was technically Christmas morning, after all.

He winced when tearing the paper off made a noise in the silent apartment, but Thor slept soundly through it.

Resting on the tissue paper inside was a small brass picture frame. Young Peggy stared back at him, dark curls pinned back in a practical knot, in her crisp military uniform. So beautiful and vibrant that Steve’s heart ached. She had a clipboard in hand, sizing up the new recruits. And in the background, was that...?

 _The only picture I could ever find with the two of us in it_ , Peggy’s note explained in looping cursive. _That’s always how I’ll remember you._

Steve flushed. Scrawny and asthmatic is how she preferred to think of him?

 _There’s a wonderful future waiting for you, my darling_ , her note continued, _and I don’t want you to let it pass you by. But don’t be afraid to_ remember _, either. Our past is a part of who we are._

His hand closed protectively around the picture frame. Swallowing hard, he settled back against Thor and closed his eyes. For once, his dreams were serene.

 


End file.
